


Amen

by pavidcas (thequeenofhellmademedoit)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (for now) - Freeform, Aftermath of Torture, Amen or Whatever Reworked, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Claustrophobia, Cliffhangers, Dark, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Grief/Mourning, Headspace, Hell, In Character, Like waaaaay down the line, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Really Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, POV Multiple, Piece Inspired by Earlier Work, Prayer, Profound Bond, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Timeline beginning before, Torture, Torturer Dean, Warnings May Change, Work In Progress, dante's inferno, seriously, sort of, this fic is not for the feint of heart, turn back now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3498980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeenofhellmademedoit/pseuds/pavidcas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will be my baby. Inspired by my prompt fic, Amen, or Whatever. I'm reworking it to be a somewhat canon-compliant timeline, with alternate events taking place. So basically it plausibly could be canon.</p><p>The chapters are short because I'm doing about one a day. (I like torturing myself.)</p><p>Castiel is an angel in his Father's army sent to pull the Righteous Man from perdition before (or so he believes) the man can break the First Seal of the apocalypse.</p><p>Dean Winchester sold his soul to give his brother a second chance at life, and now has to pay that price in Hell. But was the price too steep?</p><p>An in depth retelling (and occasional reworking) of events that have happened on The Road So Far. Possible canon divergence later on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soldier of Heaven's Host

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I want to thank Speary and miss_grey for the wonderful inspiration they have given me to write again. I'll try not to disappoint! Also, a huge thank you to my friend, Sophie, for dealing with my wank over this fic into the wee hours of the morning. I finally see some direction here. That being said, just assume the majority of this fic is unbeta'd. (If you'd like to beta just leave me a comment saying so below. Thank you!)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not write nor own Supernatural. Any references, parallels, or dialogue from the show is property of Supernatural and all its affiliates, including the CW. I will try my hardest to reference dialogue I pull straight from the show. Okay.
> 
> One more thing. I will likely include a song title to accompany each chapter, to put you guys in the right headspace. Typically they will be the songs I listen to as I write each chapter. Okay.
> 
> The song for this chapter is If I Die Young by The Band Perry. Good golly gosh my feelings.
> 
> Okay. That is all. Enjoy :)

 

There were two men laboring in the open clearing in the woods outside of Pontiac, Illinois. The rain was coming down in torrents, drenching the soft earth as they slowly, drudgingly dug a hole into the ground until it was large enough to be deemed a shallow grave... which is what is was. The pine box they'd maneuvered carefully out of the older man's truck earlier in the day was laying a few feet away, patiently awaiting the role it had to play in this ritual.

Castiel was fascinated. Being a relatively young soldier of Heaven's host, he'd never had the opportunity to observe the behaviors of his Father's most beloved creatures. This new mission had come not only as a surprise, but also a novelty of the most extreme nature. He had no idea why _he_ , a mere soldier, had been chosen to raise the _Righteous Man_ from perdition's grasp. But Castiel was not one to question orders.

This was the site where the Righteous Man, Dean Winchester, was to be buried. This was important information to know as the man's soul would have to be put back in his body when he was rescued.

Castiel observed the two men closely, curious of their behaviors. The older one, Bobby Singer, was gruff and methodic in his movements, but Castiel could see that within the man's soul he was grieving deeply. The younger man, Sam Winchester, was Dean Winchester's younger brother. He was openly weeping as he shoveled the mud up out of the hole. Castiel could see the horrific trauma that had been rent upon this man's soul from the recent loss of his brother. The sheer power of emotions sweeping off the two men as they grieved was completely overwhelming to the angel, and entrancing.

Castiel mentally shook his attention away from the humans. He had to get back to his task. He focused his Grace and turned his attention to the crudely made coffin, and the body that was inside it. There was no trace of soul left in the empty shell that had once been Dean Winchester, but the echoes of its presence were still there, so the angel studied them, honing in on their specific wavelengths of energy, memorizing their frequency. This was how he would track he Righteous Man straight into the pit.

Curiosity got the best of him then, and he refocused his energy to seeking out that wavelength, spreading out further and further from himself, searching for Dean Winchester's soul. Finally, after what seemed like eons, he felt a tiny flicker at the extreme peripheral of his consciousness. He realigned his focus to pinpoint that flicker, tracking it down.

The sudden shockwave of emotion that reverberated back from that tiny beacon nearly threw Castiel back; something he had never experienced in all his existence.

Gathering himself, the angel honed in on the powerful soul, and was surprised to find that the man was _praying._ Even in the depths of Hell, Dean Winchester's voice still permeated Castiel's being, pulling him towards the awesome force of that presence. But that wasn't the shocking part. What stunned Castiel the most was that Dean Winchester was not praying to him or any other angel or even God. He was praying to his brother.

_Sam..._

_I know you can't hear me..._

_I know I'm stuck down here and there's no saving me..._

_But..._

_God, I wish you could hear me, man..._

_I wish you could save me..._

_I take that back, don't you dare, Sam..._

_I just..._

_The torment never ends here..._

_It just goes on and on and on and there is no use in trying to escape it..._

_Sam..._

_I don't know... how much longer... I can do this..._

The voice was painfully raspy and haggard, and Castiel knew that Dean Winchester was being tortured to the point of breaking down in the pit. But he still heard a minute measure of hope left in the man's voice, and as long as he still had hope he was still able to be saved.

Castiel knew he must hurry.

He regrouped his consciousness and looked about his surroundings, surprised to find that the two men were nowhere in sight, the rain was long gone, and the low mound of earth that marked Dean Winchester's grave already had a light dusting of grass marching in to reclaim the violated spot of overturned earth. He had been too long. He knew he must hurry. The path through Hell was a long and taxing journey, and he was running out of time.


	2. Too Steep a Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters in one day what??? This one is kinda short, sorry, they'll get longer and vary, I promise. 
> 
> A really awesome song to accompany this chapter is Pink Floyd's Is There Anybody Out There. So creepy. So good.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Darkness pressed in around him from all sides. Discordant flashes of light and strangled cries of anguish overwhelmed his senses at jarring intervals. His ankles and wrists were bound with iron manacles, stretching him out awkwardly over a yawning abyss. Metal hooks the size of his head were punctured through the flesh and bone of his shoulders, his ribs, and his waist. He could not move—could not _breathe_ without jarring the nerves around the wounds into painful awareness. He wished for the blissful reprieve of unconsciousness, or even death, but neither came.

He was dead already, and this was Hell.

As if this torment were not enough he would be visited each day—at least he thought they were days; there was no distinction and time seemed to move differently here—by his own personal torture master, Alastair. The demon would lay into him with blades and whips and hot iron and any other device he deemed worthy simply for the pleasure of ripping the ragged screams from his mouth.

After each session Alastair would lean in close and whisper in his ear, the demon’s breath ghosting over his flesh and making his skin crawl. He’d be offered a deal each time: The torture would end, all of it, if he would agree to pick up the knife and use it on others in Alastair’s stead.

He refused each time.

Each night—at least he thought it was night—he would pretend Sam was there and speak to him. It was the only comfort he could offer himself in this nightmare. Most nights he would just say he was glad he was here instead of Sam, that he would make the same choice again in a heartbeat. He knew that Sam probably hadn't survived the encounter with Lilith, but he comforted himself with thinking that Sam was probably now resting somewhere, wherever, peacefully. These thoughts gave him hope and strength in the aftermath of Alastair's visits. They gave him the will to carry on.

Eventually, though, he began to wear, and one night he called out desperately to his brother.

_Sam…_

So many thoughts swirled around in his head. For the first time he regretted the deal he’d made and wished he could take it all back. This was too drastic, too steep a price. He couldn’t do this. He wished he hadn’t told Sam not save him. The thought of his brother brought him back to focus. No, he was glad Sam wasn’t here. His brother was safe. Sam was at peace. And he knew there was nothing Sam could have done anyway. He was just tired, that was all.

Just so tired…

_I don’t know… how much longer… I can do this…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are sunshine and rainbows! And I pray for constructive criticism, seriously. Let me know what you think!


	3. Defeated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 Chapters today I am awesome!
> 
> Okay. So obviously the theme here is prayer, but for the sake of my sanity I'm going to have to not include prayers in every chapter so much as plot. Bear with me. The theme is still heavy.
> 
> The song I recommend for this chapter is The Kill by 30 Seconds to Mars. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

It took thirty years.

Time relatively had no meaning, but Alastair would always be especially ruthless on the anniversaries, and each year that passed left him with another notch from Alastair’s blade on the inside of his ribs. Most of the injuries from his ceaseless torture would be healed by the time his next session with Alastair began, but the notches never did. He could feel every single one. They served as a reminder that each year that he did not give in to Alastair’s offer would mean another ever painful torture even after the sessions had ended. Still he did not relent.

Eight notches.

“You’re going to give in eventually, Dean. Everyone always does. Why not save yourself the trouble?”

Thirteen notches.

“You deserve this, you know. Think of all the terrible things you’ve done in your life. Your father gave his life for you, _Dean_. I had him right here on my rack as well. And what did you do with the life he paid so dearly for? You threw it in the gutter. You made a deal with a demon just like your daddy did all for your abomination of a brother. Yes, you deserve every little cut and slice I carve into that pretty hide of yours, _Dean_ , but I am not without mercy. You know how to end this. Just pick up my knife and see for yourself how good it feels.”

Twenty-nine notches.

“Come _on_ , Dean! Give _in_ already! You would have such a talent with a blade, you know that? Few have I seen with such… potential… as you, Dean. You could do such great things with a knife in your hand and a damned soul on your rack. What do you say, Dean? Give it a whirl. You might be surprised at how much you really _enjoy_ it.”

Thirty notches.

Alastair surprised him this time. The demon did not start in on him immediately as he usually did. Instead his torturer just stood before him and crossed his arms in front of his chest, idly toying with his favorite silver razor while he waited. “It seems that I’ve had some bad news of recent, Dean. One of my favorite little chew toys, Ruby, has gone rogue on us.”

He immediately tensed at the mention of Ruby. Her name was a memory of the life he had once had; a reminder back to just before he’d died. She was a link to Sam. He had hoped Sam was dead-- that he'd found peace-- for so long that the thought that his brother might still be alive-- might be mixed up with  _her_ again-- rocked him to his core. He shuddered, apprehensive of Alastair’s next words.

“And would you believe it, she’s found herself a friend, Dean. More than a friend, actually, a _lover_.” Alastair’s sickly syrupy voice sneered over the last word like it tasted bad in his mouth. “’Who?’, you ask, Dean? Why, none other than your dear little baby brother, Sam.”

He felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as he processed the information. Sam was alive. Sam had survived Lilith. Sam was back with Ruby. Sam was screwing a demon? He’d put himself through thirty years of torment so that his brother would be safe, and Sam was thanking him by shacking up with _Ruby_?

“And the stories I’ve heard, Dean, of what they’ve been up to? They’d curdle your blood right here. Shall I tell you?”

“Screw you, you son of a bitch!”

“Now, now, Winchester, that’s no way to get sympathy from me. You should know that by now. Now where was I? Oh yes, apparently, dear little Sammy is quite the psychic. Exorcising demons with his special demon powers and all that. And I wonder how he’s channeling all these special little powers of his. The only way I can think he’d be able to do that is with demon blood.” Alastair gasped audibly as if an idea had just struck him. “Do you think that Sammy could be drinking Ruby’s blood, Dean? My, my wouldn’t that just be salt in your wound… Oh, I think I’ve said too much. Have I upset you, Dean?” Alastair asked him coyly, feigning sympathy.

All the fight had gone out of him with Alastair’s revelation. If what the demon said was true, and Alastair had never lied to him once in his thirty years down here, then Sam was lost. Everything he had sacrificed, had endured, had been for nothing.

And he was finally ready.

“Give me the razor,” he muttered, head hanging, defeated.

“What was that, Dean? You’ll have to speak up.”

He picked up his head and looked the demon straight in the eye. “You win. I’ll do it. _Give me the razor_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and constructive criticism are appreciated. :)


	4. Desperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Castiel's POV.
> 
> This chapter was a BITCH. 
> 
> For this chapter I recommend Bastille's Daniel in the Den. A++ band.

Castiel had seen eons come and go. He had been brought into existence at the Creation, and had held audience as his Father had shaped the Earth and brought it into existence. Centuries passed like the blink of an eye for the angel, and he understood the separate and varied paths that time took in each of the numerous realms of his Father's creation.

Even with all that, the past thirty years in Hell had seemed an eternity to him.

The entirety of Hell's armies guarded the way, and every step further down into the depths had been a hard won battle. He had kept his consciousness stretched out ahead of him, always maintaining the tenuous connection to the Righteous Man's soul. Occasionally he would get snippets of Dean Winchester's conscious thoughts, and be made aware that the man was slowly losing his resolve. Castiel had known the situation was getting dire.

Thirty years, and he was just on the perimeter of the Middle Ring of the Seventh Circle of Hell, where he knew the Righteous Man was being held captive. Small pale flakes of ash rained down upon the desolate landscape that he now found himself in, painting everything a light grey. Beyond the gate that guarded this realm Castiel could see that the land was mostly barren, with the exception of leafless, thorny brambles that he knew to be the damned souls of those who had ended the lives gifted to them by hid Father by their own hands. No matter stuck they had seemed in their previous lives, they were now damned to an eternity of entrapment here in Hell.

The seven demons guarding the entrance to this section had the faces of old women, with snakes for hair, and-- in a strange mockery it seemed to the angel-- wings sprouting from their backs. These were the harpies that guarded the realms of the violent, and Castiel knew this would be his fiercest battle yet.

The first of the harpies spotted him as he approached the gate and rushed at him, aided in its swiftness by the propulsion of its grotesquely disfigured wings. He drew his angel blade and promptly dispatched of the abomination, but the flurry of action drew two of its companions in quick succession.

The demons flew at him, claws swinging, aiming for his face and wings. He grappled one to the ground and burned it out with a flash of his Grace. The second slashed at his left wing and found its mark. Searing pain flashed behind his eyes as he buckled from the shock, but he rapidly regained his footing and whirled around to parry the harpy's next lash. He used his momentum to drive the angel blade through the creature's solar plexus, disposing of this opponent as expeditiously as the first two.

He barely got a reprieve before the remaining four were upon him, claws flashing in a whirlwind of rage. He killed two quickly with a brief flash of his Grace and turned to face the surviving foes. They immediately rushed to either side of him to commence the attack on separate fronts.

The one on his left was the closest, so Castiel rushed at the demon, blade raised to strike. Suddenly he felt the sensitive flesh between his shoulder blades raked by claws and the world went white. His knees buckled and he dropped to the ground. The harpies assailed him from above and he drew his wings about him in defense.

It was in that moment that he felt Dean Winchester's consciousness flare in distress, and the angel's attention was averted from the onslaught around him.

_Screw you, you son of a bitch!_

The man's thoughts invaded Castiel's awareness, flooding him with the anger and betrayal the soul was experiencing. The situation presented itself abruptly within the angel's understanding; Dean Winchester's brother had thrown away the second chance the man had bought for him with his soul. For a demon.

Castiel cringed in sympathy for the man: the betrayal of a brother was something the angel understood all too well.

The next words the man spoke brought Castiel's hopes crashing down with all the force of a collapsing supernova.

_Give me the razor..._

_You win. I'll do it._ Give me the razor.

He had failed.

He had not been able to get there in time and the Righteous Man had broken, and along with him the First Seal. The apocalypse was nigh.

The angel's consciousness was brought back to himself as he felt the harpies' claws tearing into his wings, and the gravity of his situation hit him fully.

In a fit of desperation Castiel let out one last great pulse of his Grace, setting the air alight with holy flame. He held on to awareness long enough to note that he'd incinerated the last two demons and that he'd somehow made it through the gate. Then his world went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did reference Dante Alighieri's Inferno for the details about the setting and the harpies, as that was the source that was referenced for Lucifer's "I burn cold" in canon. I just thought it fit well.
> 
> Also, I have to mention that I got the idea for Cas's epic Grace pulse from miss_grey's current fic, Haven. A++ feels fest, everyone. Highly recommended!
> 
> Anyhoo, kudos are appreciated, and comments let me know that someone out there at least is reading this. Now to go watch some TWD before bed. Night, darlings :)


	5. Won't Fail Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote a whole other chapter before I wrote this one and decided that this one needed to come first. Yeah. -.-
> 
> Anyhoo, song rec for this one is Iridescent by Linkin Park. Very song such good much wow.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

When Castiel came to he found himself covered in a light dusting of ash. He looked about his surroundings and found that he was lying under a thick bramble of thorny bushes. He decided he must have fallen here when he'd passed out, all but exhausted of his Grace after the battle. He had been lucky. The density of the undergrowth had likely shielded him from hostile eyes.

He lifted himself into a low crouch and assessed his situation. He felt utterly drained. Though he was still tethered to Heaven's host and could replenish his Grace through the connection, it would be a much slower recovery due to his being in a realm so devoid of his Father's presence. As he crouched there grounding himself, the memories of the late battle came flooding back to him.

_I failed..._

He rocked back on his heels and sunk down to a sitting position on the arid, rocky ground. He had been chosen for this task of paramount importance, and he had failed. The Righteous Man had broken, had drawn the blood of another in the depths of the pit. The First Seal was broken. 

As he sat there he considered the implications this would have for all of Creation.

Hell's armies would rush to break the final sixty-five Seals and Lucifer would be freed from his eternal prison. Castiel scowled at the remembrance of his wayward brother and the betrayal he had played against his Father. Lucifer going free was not something he looked forward to.

Heaven's hosts would be forced to leave their celestial stations to descend to Earth and wage war upon Lucifer's armies. Pandemonium would ensue. And Lucifer's vessel was walking the earth, while Micheal's was...

_The Micheal Sword was still in Hell._

Castiel straightened immediately. He knew what must be done if Heaven was to win this war. He knew what he must do. He had to finish the mission. Dean Winchester had to be saved.

He realigned himself into his crouching position and peered over the thorny brambles to observe his surroundings. Though the landscape was dark and suffused in a layer of smokey fog that made visibility near impossible, no movement was detectable in his immediate area. The angel slowly rose to a standing position, alert for any sudden movements. No signs of hostile enemies appeared, so he made his way out of the bracken and focused his remaining energy into locating the Righteous Man once more. He located the tortured soul quickly and set off in the general direction of the man's presence.

He would not fail this time.

***

It took him ten more years of crossing the barren wasteland of the realm of the violent, but Castiel finally made it to the secluded region of Hell that was the demon Alastair's domain and the sole section of Hell that Dean Winchester had inhabited in all forty years of his imprisonment. This region ran along the edge of great chasm, so deep that the bottom could not be seen when Castiel peered over the edge.

Alastair's headquarters consisted of a minor fortress set atop the highest ridge along the very edge of the cliff. The angel knew that it was there that he would find the Righteous Man.

When Castiel came upon the outer wall of the fortress he met light opposition in the form of a pack of hellhounds, which he dispatched quickly. He made his way in through the gate and crept along the outside of inner wall, wary of any signs of opposition. He met none until he came to the gate of the inner wall, where he was faced with three more harpies. He picked each off one by one, reserving his store of Grace for the obstacles he knew lay ahead.

Once past the inner wall, Castiel kept to the shadows, meeting little resistance once he was actually inside the fortress. He followed his thread of consciousness that tied him with Dean Winchester's soul until he found himself inside one of the deeper dungeon cells that lined the face of the cliff.

There were only three walls in the room: where there should have been a fourth there was only open space. The room was empty but for a table against one wall that held what appeared to be implements of torture. There was a man standing at the very edge of the room, facing a woman that was bound in chains that stretched her limbs out over the yawning chasm below. The man turned to the table to retrieve a silver razor.

Castiel crossed into the tiny cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 will be up today. Warning, it's violent and dark and I don't even know anymore. What is life?
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are manna from heaven. Let me know what you're thinking of this so far! Thanks for reading! :)


	6. Calculated Syncopation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter has graphic depictions of violence. If you are squeamish about this sort of thing (especially male on female violence) turn back now. If you are not in good headspace or feeling fragile today I suggest saving this for another day. This was not fun to write, but necessary for character development. Sorry.
> 
> Song rec: Bullet with Butterfly Wings by Smashing Pumpkins.
> 
> Please don't hate me.

Alastair had been right.

_You might be surprised at how much you really_ enjoy _it..._

That had been so long ago.

The first time he’d picked up that wicked silver blade he’d felt a rush of power flood his being, a sense of control that he’d never had before alive or dead. When he’d sliced into the flesh of the damned soul brought before him all the anger and pain and misery he’d kept bottled up through all of his existence came pouring out and he knew that this was his calling. This was what he been meant to do. The man on his rack had screamed out in agony and he had _relished_ in the pain he knew he could now inflict instead of experience.

From that moment on he was unstoppable.

Even now, so many years after that first time, he was still struck by how _right_ this role felt for him. He had studied under Alastair’s careful instruction for years, and quickly came to rival even the master. This was his calling, his purpose, and he loved it.

Never had he loved it more than this moment.

The soul of the woman stretched in manacles before him still resembled that of her physical form when she’d been alive, if a bit worn and withered from what had to be decades of torment. He knew this because he’d known her in his previous life, and hated her even then.

He gazed upon Bela Talbot's soul with cold calculation.

He couldn’t believe his fortune. He grinned maliciously and took a step towards her, forcing her chin up so he could peer her in the eyes and see the fear seething just beneath the surface.

Instead he was meant with cold contempt.

“Hello, Dean. Fancy meeting you here,” she spoke coyly, bitterness marring the edges of her tone.

“ _Bela._ ” He spat the name back at her, his revulsion of the woman seeping into the syllables as if nothing could disgust him more than their utterance.

“It seems you didn’t succeed after all.”

The words cut him, a sensation he was not used to after all this time. It made him want to maim and burn and _kill_ the feelings away, to regain the miniscule amount of control he’d lost in that moment.

His fist connected with her cheekbone with a satisfying crunch. He'd struck at precisely the right angle, shattering the delicate structure beneath. Her head rocked to the side with the force of the blow as she let out a strangled moan of pain. The sound incensed him, and he found himself beating her again and again and again, thrilling in the sound of her flesh pulping against bone and the cries each blow dragged from her bloodied mouth. He fell into a rhythm, each strike landing with calculated syncopation. Facing this woman brought to the surface all of the emotions that he'd kept buried for so many years. He vented them out now in this violent song. It was as if he was dancing; this dance a prayer to the only god he knew now: power.

When he finally regained control of himself and looked upon the product of his efforts, he let out a satisfied sigh. The bloody pile of pulverized flesh hung limply from the chains that were preventing her collapse into the abyss below. He smirked and let a wry chuckle leave his lips as he surveyed the damage.

Gratified with his work, he snapped his fingers once, and slowly, meticulously, the woman was remade. With each resetting of bone and popping of joints she huffed a startled gasp. When he finally deemed her restored enough to continue he approached the rack, each step measured and purposeful.

"Have we gotten past the _Die Hard_ crap now, Bela? Or do we need another lesson in humility?" He asked coolly, the threat blatant in his tone.

She gave no further response than to regard him balefully, pleading.

"Good. Now we can really get this party started," he asserted, slipping back into his cool, collected persona. He turned to collect his razor from the array of vile implements on the table beside him, and caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

He whirled around to identify the cause, and was brought up short. 

The creature before him had the form of a tall, lithe man with a tangle of dark hair crowning his remarkable face. A strong nose, wide lips, and the dusting of stubble on his chiseled jaw were all but eclipsed by the sheer intensity in his gaze.

_Those eyes..._

The deep azure blue of the creature's eyes distracted him momentarily from the true anomaly. The thing standing in front of him had _wings._ And not just any wings: the appendages were massive. They spanned a good twelve feet, and were a deep midnight blue with streaks of velvety purple and gleaming silver highlighting the ridges and valleys. They were truly magnificent, though obviously battle-worn. He could see faint scarring in several areas, and patches of missing feathers. The being took a step towards him, putting itself an arm's length in front of him.

"That's close enough, buddy," he barked, instinctual fear creeping down the back of his spine. This thing was most certainly a threat.

The entity ceased its advance, and tilted its head at him as if confused by what it was seeing. It wore a sad, almost defeated expression, and gazed at him with a gravity to rival his father's.

"Dean Winchester. I mean you know harm. I am here to raise you from perdition." The creature's voice was deeper than God's, a low gravel that sent shivers down his spine.

"From what?" He asked, confused by the thing's odd speech. "You know what? I don't care. I ain't going anywhere with you, Feathers. You can beat it."

The being leveled his gaze on him, narrowing his eyes. It truly was an intimidating thing.

"I have marched for forty years into the very depths of Hell to rescue you from your fate, Dean Winchester. I am an angel of the Lord, and I was sent to save you from the pit."

And with that it lifted its hand to his shoulder and his world went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP RIGHT THERE!
> 
> First of all, if you've read this far I love you and thank you.
> 
> Second, I want to ask you, YES YOU RIGHT THERE WITH THE FACE, to take a quick moment and leave me one or two thoughts on what you've read so far. Is it too dark? Too short of chapters? Just right? I won't know unless you tell me. 
> 
> Kudos are nice as well, if you feel so inclined.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Bizarre Familiarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! I got involved in a couple other things this week, including revamping my tumblrrrrrr, landing an awesome job, and starting a portrait. Also, the updates from now on might be every other day because I'm starting to have to do research now. So there's that. 
> 
> Anyhoo, I think a really good song for this one is Linkin Park's New Divide... idk, it just has the right vibe and I found meaning in the lyrics. Don't judge me.
> 
> Enjoy!

He opened his eyes to darkness.

His throat was raw and his mouth was dry; the air he inhaled even drier, and it caused him to cough roughly.

Dean was laying on his back on what felt like a wooden surface, and judging by the closeness of the air, he decided he was in a very small, cramped space. He found his lighter in his pocket and flicked the flint till the fuel caught, shedding a dim light upon his surroundings. What he saw made his stomach drop.

He was in a wooden box.

"Help..." His voice was rough and hoarse, and he desperately needed a drink of water.

"Help! Help!"

He realized no help was coming.

Dean raised his arm and banged his palm on the wood above his head, spluttering when loose dirt showered down onto his face from between the planks.

His blood ran cold.

He was _buried._

Taking one last deep breath of the stagnant air, he wedged his fingers between one of the gaps in the wood and pulled down with all his force. The slat broke easily, and the earth came rushing in.

********************************************************************************************************************************************************

It seemed like he'd been digging for hours, his arms growing weary and his lungs burning for oxygen. He couldn't do this much longer. He knew that sooner or later his involuntary muscles would kick in; he would exhale, then inhale, and suffocate on the dirt that would fill his lungs.

_I'm still in Hell..._

_I must have pissed Alastair off somehow, and this has gotta be some new brand of punishment he cooked up..._

_What the Hell did I do?_

_I was doing so well..._

Dean kept clawing his way up as he thought, trying to remember back to his most recent transgression. His arms were getting heavy, and he was seeing stars behind his eyelids.

_I... Bela, she was on my rack..._

_I... lost control..._

_That must be it..._

_But, I recovered, I got it back..._

_I don't remember him coming in..._

_No, but that other thing did..._

_What the fuck was that???_

_It_ looked _human..._

 _But those_ wings _..._

He was at the end of his strength.

Dean knew that in a few seconds he would have to take that fatal breath, and probably face this fate a thousand times over if he knew Alastair at all. He extended his arms one more foot...

And felt nothing but air on his hands.

He'd reached the surface.

In a fit of desperation, Dean threw every last drop of remaining energy into a full-out scramble to the top, and finally, _finally,_ his head broke free of the suffocating earth.

He gasped the sweet, cool air and found ecstasy.

Renewed by the rush of fresh oxygen into his lungs, Dean found new strength to pull the rest of his body free of his would-be grave. When he was finally free he collapsed on the soft green earth and sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity it was that had saved him from that terrible fate.

He rolled over to lay on his back in his moment of reprieve and when he opened his eyes he was startled to find... blue. The sky above him was a vast blue expanse all but forgotten over the past four decades. Startled, he reactively pulled himself into a crouch and slowly stood to better observe his surroundings.

Dean realized he was standing in a wide grassy clearing, made wider by the fact that all the trees within a ten yard radius had all been blasted down as if a bomb had gone off right over his would-be grave, a wooden cross marking the tomb and the direct center of the blast site.

_The Hell???_

This was like no part of Hell Dean had ever seen, and the foreignness coupled with the simultaneous bizarre familiarity was deeply unsettling.

_Where the fuck am I???_

Finding no answer there, he settled into long-ingrained survival instincts and put his priorities first. He was parched, and hungry, and the severity of the sun's rays stressed the importance of shelter as well. There were no viable options here, Dean soon came to understand.

Left with no alternative, he found himself making his way towards the dirt path not 20 yards away from the grave site. He followed it till it got to a paved road and began his long trek towards what end he himself didn't know. The sun beat down on his back and he began to sweat, so he removed his green flannel shirt and tied it around his waist. Despite the heat, the cool breeze felt pleasant on his skin, a sensation he hadn't felt since he'd been alive. It was at this point that Dean finally came to the conclusion that he had to somehow miraculously be alive again.

_Sam, what did you do?_

He'd noticed that his amulet was missing, and the unfamiliar lightness without its weight unsettled him. It was the only thing he had ever had on him to tie him to his brother, a gift from when they were kids. Hopefully it's absence didn't signify anything too ominous.

_You better not have done anything too stupid, Sammy, or I swear I'll..._

The thought of his brother sent an ache through his entire being. The last ten years in Hell had somewhat eased the pain of the knowledge of what Sam had done, but Dean still felt the pang of betrayal and bitter disappointment when he thought of his brother. The brother he had died for. The brother who was probably even now screwing a demon. Shouldering these mental burdens, he continued down the road.


	8. Synchronicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this far, thank you :)
> 
> Song rec: Eleanor Rigby by the Beatles. It just fits, trust me.
> 
> Enjoy!

Castiel watched raptly as the Righteous Man pulled himself out of the ground, mesmerized by the way the man's muscles extended and contracted in fluid synchronicity. He'd knitted every single one of those muscles back together, molded the sinews and bones back into shape, laced the delicate tissues and organs, sculpted the chiseled features of his face. He had remade the beautiful human he now saw before him, and he was proud of his work. Dean Winchester's new body was now perfect in every way, except for one blemish that Castiel could not undo. The mark the angel's Grace had left on the man's soul when he'd gripped him to raise him from Hell had bled through to imprint on his skin, and if Castiel was being completely honest with himself, he didn't think he would have removed it if he could. It was a type of signature on the masterpiece that he had reformed from a pile of bones, a maker's mark saying that this was his work.

In hindsight, Castiel thought he should have at least removed the body from the coffin before he'd breathed Dean Winchester's soul back into it's renewed home.

A minor error.

The man gathered himself and began walking towards the road and Castiel followed at a distance, keeping his form on a higher metaphysical plane so the man would not see him. He wanted his observation of the Righteous Man's first moments back in the realm of the living to remain unnoticed.

The man finally came upon an old rundown gas station about three miles into his journey. Castiel noted the two antique red gas pumps out front, the old payphone booth, and the vintage tan Mercury Monterey hardtop that littered the front of the property, and though he could sense no one was inside, he knew that the owner of the establishment was a kind old man whom his friends called George. George had recently lost his wife, and was currently at her funeral, paying his respects to his beloved Katherine, with whom he'd spent over sixty years of his life. Humanity was still a foreign concept to the angel and the unique stories of each individual intrigued him like nothing ever had.

Dean Winchester peeked in the window of the front door that had a "Closed" sign hanging from it on the inside. Seeing no signs of life, he quickly balled his green flannel shirt around his fist and punched through the pane of glass, then reached inside and undid the lock. Castiel frowned. He knew the man was only doing what was necessary for his survival, but he felt that George would not be happy to find his personal business intruded upon in this way. Shrugging, the angel settled in to observe the human once more.

He watched through the walls as the man went immediately to the cooler and chugged half a bottle of water, then looked around the store as if deep in thought. The man perked up as a newspaper caught his eye, it read " _Pontiac Post Gazette, Thursday, September 18, 2008, Serial Arsonist Sought"._ Castiel pondered over why Dean Winchester would be interested in the local news, but was answered when the man muttered to himself, musing aloud.

_"September?"_

Oh. Time was irrelevant to the angel, but he realized as he looked down at the human that Dean Winchester was only now working out that he'd only been gone from this realm for four months, not the four decades that he'd believed. Castiel watched the man slowly get over his shock, then proceed to take stock of the store. 

Dean Winchester crossed over to the small sink in back and ran the faucet, splashing cold water on his face. When he was finished he dried himself off with his green flannel shirt and looked up into the small utility mirror above the sink, taking in the unchanged physique of his living flesh. It seemed to confuse the human that he was so apparently unscathed from his time in the pit, and he checked his unmarked skin with unabashed curiosity. Castiel's breath caught when Dean Winchester seemed to notice an anomaly on his left shoulder. The man lifted his sleeve to examine the irregularity and gasped at the sight of the blistered handprint on his flesh. The angel was struck with the force of the Righteous Man's emotions all at once.

The man was _afraid_.

The human must have quickly decided then that it was time to get going because he grabbed a grocery bag from the counter and began filling it with protein bars, bags of nuts, water, and... Castiel quickly averted his eyes as the man browsed through the colorful pages of the iniquitous publication, embarrassed by the human's lack in moral standing. He did not grow angry, though, until the human crossed to the cash register and began pilfering its contents as well. That was George's livelihood. Dean did not need that to survive, but George did. Castiel began to berate the human, only remembering too late that sometimes complications that arose from still being in his true form-- that only certain humans would be able to hear his true voice. Apparently dean Winchester was not one of those humans.

The man was startled as the TV to his left flicked on without reason, and he tentatively reached to shut it off. As he did so, the radio behind him clicked on of its own accord, a slow old country western melody leaking out of its speakers. As the human turned to shut it off as well, the TV once again turned itself on, and the hunter's instincts kicked in. He went to the shelf that held the salt in bulk and started lining one of the windows as the angel's voice began to shatter the airwaves around him. The man clutched at his ears and ducked as the first window exploded inwards, propelling him back onto the floor. He stumbled to his feet and made for the door when the second blast caught him full on and he was blasted back into the counter, glass shards raining down on him from all directions.

Castiel realized his mistake at once, regret mounting up over his conscience and clouding his thoughts. He had terrified the man, and caused even more damage to George's already ruined business. He decided it was time to leave well enough alone for now. He had to report back to Heaven anyway, to receive Revelation from the Host.

With a thought and a flex of his wings, Castiel left Dean Winchester to his new recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to miss_grey for all the encouraging comments. This chapter's for you, Dearie!
> 
> Kudos and comments, y'all know the drill! (I'm spending waaay too much time reading 'Til the Last. I just said "y'all.")
> 
> Also, I'm on tumblr, if you feel like looking me up. thequeenofhellmademedoit.tumblr.com


End file.
